


The Ghosts of Novembers

by cherry_macka (crna_macka)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Family, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magic Revealed, Modern Era, Русалка | нимфа | nimfa | Rusalka (Slavic Mythology & Folklore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crna_macka/pseuds/cherry_macka
Summary: For the first time in four years, Esme’s family has gathered at her grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. The last visit ended with a tragedy that Esme barely remembers now. All she knows is that the woods beyond her family’s property are off-limits, and no matter how much trouble might follow, she can’t seem to keep away.





	

Thanksgiving is not rife with tradition, and for that, Esme is grateful. Fewer obligations means ample time to finish any homework and then find her own distractions, of her own choosing. Roughly every five years, the extended Villeau family converges on her grandparents' house for the holiday. The aunts and uncles split the preparation duties, and the cousins split the cleanup. The few that care about football or parades commandeer the den with its top-of-the-line TV, and those that care about Black Friday at the stores are shit-out-of-luck on Grandma's long-standing decree that no one drives on Thursday or Friday - not even just the short trip into town. It can be a mixed blessing.

This is their second Thanksgiving up in the hills. The previous one, four years ago, had cemented Esme's dread and disdain for this particular holiday. The long car drive is oppressively silent, full of beautiful scenery that becomes pointless after night falls on their trek. There is no stop for dinner, only sandwiches in the car. (Except for him; he insists on going to a drive-through "for coffee" when he gets grumpy not even an hour after turning down PB&J.) They arrive close to midnight, with the younger kids drowsy from interrupted naps and Esme blinking blearily at the warm glow of lights inside the house, a beacon against the shadowy press of trees and distant arc of blackness overhead. When the floodlight over the garage flicks on, she can see her breath clouding away in front of her cold nose.

"Esme, help unload," he says.

She's tired and cold and does as she's told, hauling a suitcase, duffel, and backpack down the basement steps to the foldout couch and inflated air mattress. The siblings will be sharing. She's used to this, and at least she won't be wishing for more blankets.

* * *

8 AM is late for her, the luxury more a product of getting in at midnight rather than being on vacation. Esme puts on jeans over her shorts and a sweatshirt over her long sleeved tee. The muted footsteps and voices indicate she's probably one of the last ones to wake, and all she can think is that if she's lucky, there will be coffee in the pot.

The Villeaus' house is ranch style but not cramped, even though the rooms are filled with grown sons and daughters and their spouses and children. Esme catches a glimpse of the steaming coffee maker around two uncles, declines an offer of eggs or oatmeal or whatever is in the closet. She so rarely gets coffee at home.

She knows the attraction is really just this particular flavor and this particular brand. It's her grandfather's, his favorite for as long as she can remember, and the smell of it is comforting with warm memories. There's a canister of hot chocolate powder undoubtedly bought just for the kids, and Esme scoops some - three spoons, no more, an engrained habit - into an empty mug before squeezing through to the beckoning carafe.

With the dining table full of cousins under the age of ten, all cereals and milk and sticky fingers, she slips out to the deck with its Adirondack chairs and full flush of sunshine. The air is chilly, but the company is sparse. She joins Deandre, who is a couple years younger, on a cushioned glider.

"When did you get in?"

"Yesterday afternoon, late." He kicks a heel against the deck boards. "We flew."

"I think everyone flew but us," she mutters, holding her mug under her chin so the rising heat hits her face and every breath she takes is nothing but that scent.

Deandre lowers his voice so no one can overhear. "Ouch. Ten hours in the car with your dad? Surprised you didn't jump."

Esme just shrugs, gazing at the not-too-distant treeline through the thin steam. The shadows are long on the hill and still somewhat in the yard, trapping frost in the lingering shade. Nothing has changed since the last visit. The back half acre gradually slopes, pricked by a swing, a shed, and a ring of chairs around a fire pit before the grass gives way to sparse dirt, leaves, undergrowth, tall trees and a more sharply rising slope. Where the sunlight washes through, the brown and orange of autumn glow greater than the impending grey and leftover green.

Her cousin respects her silence but grows bored of the cold stillness and goes back inside. The aunts and uncles with their rustling newspapers and quiet catch-up don't involve her. Esme feels a familiar stab of loneliness at the mental reminder that this break would be the same test of endurance back home. At least here, in the hills with all these family members, it might be easier to slip away.

* * *

By midday they decide on an excursion to the woods. A mix of teenagers and children, the older ones can point out, "This is the bridge we built last time!" and "Looks like the vine is gone. Wonder if Grandpa has any rope?"

"It wasn't a vine, it _was_ rope."

"Nuh uh, what would you know, you were just a kid."

"I know because I got rope burn when I fell off, retard."

"We don't say 'retard,'" Esme interrupts, her voice sharp. She doesn't care if it was a vine or a rope. She barely remembers it at all; she had been grounded when the aunts and uncles had rigged the swing over a gully. The family had spent hours out there taking turns; no wonder the rope vine was gone. (The memory tastes bitter.)

She stomps a short distance from the group to gaze back down the hill and toward the house. She can almost imagine there are no adults, that the world has ended and their small crew of kids were the only ones to survive. Movement in the distant windows belies that, but it's a nice thought, in theory. She would love this place, if it wasn't so saturated with the ghost of that prior Thanksgiving.

Esme shakes her head, physically tossing the unwanted thought out. The effort doesn't do much good, the reminder won't go far, but at least it's _something_. "Come on, I bet there's more to do further up."

* * *

Technically, they hadn't been allowed as far as the crest their last visit. The rules had been that the cousins, regardless of age, had to stay within sight and shouting distance of the house. Esme had been twelve that year. One of the oldest. And all she had wanted was to be out of shouting distance. Out of sight. Underground or far away.

This year isn't that different, except now there's an edge of rebellion alongside the instinct for self-preservation. She hikes on toward the top of the hill, even as some of the cousins fall back, minding the old rules or complaining about the cold or simply disinterested in exploring when there is plenty to do closer to the house. There are only four of them when they reach the fenced-in field, and for the most part, all four are at least somewhat disappointed with what they've found - Deandre and the others by the field itself for not being something more exciting, and Esme for its emptiness.

"It hasn't changed," Deandre complains.

"This is what we're supposed to keep away from?"

"No, idiot, they just don't want us to go far. It has nothing to do with what's _here_."

The sky overhead is clear and blue, and the sun is cold and bright, filling the open swath. Esme squints against the unobstructed brightness. "It's a nice day. There should be horses or something." She isn't certain of that, but it's as good an excuse as any for why she wanted to come all the way up here.

They follow along parallel to the wooden fence for a ways, an air of discontent following them. "You guys got in all sorts of trouble last time," the grumbling continues.

"D said you _saw_ something."

"Something secret."

"C'mon, you would have believed anything," Deandre defends himself. Esme glances over, catching the annoyance in his tone. Like he had started to believe his own story and was disappointed that it wasn't true after all.

"Something 'illegal.' But no, you're just a liar."

"A big, fat liar."

Esme scoffs and rolls her eyes. Deandre is anything but big and fat, and he certainly isn't a liar. But she doesn't have proof of that last fact. "Quit being babies. This isn't where we saw it."

The cousins quiet, discontent turning to doubt. Was there something to Deandre's story, or is Esme just bluffing? The idea that they might think she's bluffing bolsters Esme, warming her with a spark of anger.

"There was a stream, remember?" she shoots over her shoulder. "It's around here somewhere."

"Yo!" comes the shout from below, and in the distance they can see one of their own waving wildly for their attention. "Time to get back. Hurry up!"

All of the tension dissipates, releasing the four to skitter down the slope, over jutting roots and heavy layers of leaves. Esme wants to hang back but she's at the front of the pack with her frustration. She'll be in trouble if she's the last one back. Maybe she wants to find that stream to prove she and Deandre are right, but she wants to avoid a scene even more.

There's time. There's plenty of time in the next three days, she tells herself. She has to watch her step, grit her teeth as the boys whoop and careen behind her.

* * *

Dinner is done early enough in the afternoon that there is still sunlight slanting across the lawn as the dishes finish up. Esme gets elbow deep in hot water and suds just to push the pace, hoping they can make another excursion before the darkness confines the cousins to the yard.

"We could just get some flashlights," Deandre mutters as he swipes a damp towel over relinquished flatware and passes it on to the next person in line. "Or wait 'til tomorrow. There probably isn't anything up there anymore anyway."

"Toldja," one of the boys scoffs under his breath.

"Sure," Esme grits out. She clenches her jaw, holding back an argument and an insult. It really doesn't matter if anyone else sees, does it? She wants to go back. She wants to look around for herself, now that she's older and more experienced and more likely to _remember_ so much more _clearly_.

Of course, she still wants to prove that she and Deandre didn't just make all this up.

"You think they'll let us build a fire?"

Esme is too busy biting her tongue to answer.

"Better than watching the stupid game."

"We could do s'mores and hot chocolate."

"Ugh, how are you still hungry?"  
"Hot chocolate and whipped cream. You ever have real, homemade whipped cream in your hot chocolate? Man."

Toasted marshmallows sounds nice, but so does hot, mulled cider. Local apples, lots of spices. No whipped cream. "We're almost done," Esme interrupts. "Someone go ask."

* * *

It's dusk and the dark is settling in quickly by the time they get the fire going. The flames cast a soft warm glow on the surrounding benches and a harsher heat in the same vicinity. Which is nice except for the chill at their backs and occasional need to herd some of the younger, less experienced cousins away from the stone pit.

"You'll melt your shoes off."

"Or burn a hole in your jeans. Mack did that once."

"Well if some idiot had put the grate back on, I'd've been fine."

"You could've put the grate back on."

Esme watches glowing ash rise and fade with her gloved hands clasped between her knees. The sky is clear and, in these parts, more visible. If they had stayed at a hotel instead of all packing into her grandparents' house, the tourist town would have sent up a warm glow of its own, blocking out the stars. No fire, no cousins congregating, no escape.

She glances over her shoulder at the treeline and the shadowed figure hidden among the trunks doesn't register until it means looking back again, squinting against the sting of smoke and the deepening darkness. She's started to think she imagined it, but then there's movement, and a few yards into the woods she can see the woman watching them.

No, watching _her_.

As Esme realizes this, the woman withdraws out of sight behind a tree. Esme looks to her siblings, her cousins, but none of them are paying attention to her or the woods. She hunches and glances back again surreptitiously. The woman is walking away - slowly, and glancing back at Esme, as well.

And then she is gone.

* * *

Esme starts to head back to the house, hands shoved in her coat's pockets and shoulders bowed to keep cold air from creeping down the back of her neck. As she enters the darkness between the fire's light and the yellow glow spilling out the windows, she veers for the neighbor's yard and steals back toward the trees, distant and parallel to the line she just walked. She's never met this woman before, but she's sure she's at least seen her.

She doesn't hesitate to plunge beyond the treeline; she only wonders whether the light of a cell phone could be seen from the house. It's worth taking the chance, if it keeps her from spraining an ankle. Instinct draws her to the top of the hill, deja vu dogging her the whole way.

This time, she's alone. There are no whispered speculations about spiders and ghosts, no toy flashlights turning every fallen branch and twisted tree into shadowy monsters, no muddy jeans and scraped palms from lost footing. There is a fear of getting caught, but it's different this time: very real, and defiantly tamped down. She's curious; she's not doing anything wrong. She's old enough to take care of herself.

When she emerges at the edge of the field, it's awash in moonlight. It's still _looks_ empty, but it _feels_ different. More alive, more energized, maybe? Esme pulls herself up on the fence for a higher vantage point. In the back of her mind she wonders, why _did_ she come up here?

"Where are you?" she whispers, expecting no answer back.

Defiance wanes and caution overtakes her curiosity. She is cold and exposed up here, and she has nothing to show for breaking the rules, even for her own satisfaction. To come up here with cousins, in the daylight, is one thing. At night, alone, it's just reckless and stupid. What was she thinking? Fuming at herself, she swings a leg back over the rail.

Something must give underfoot - a patch of leaves, a stick, maybe an understandable misjudgment of balance - and she just manages to catch herself in a crouch, stomach dropping at the unknown of _what if momentum kept her going_ \- and then she feels the back of her coat released as she steadies.

"Graceful," a lilting voice teases.

The woman is a girl. Late teens or early twenties, smelling like soft, fresh earth and rain and cedar. She holds a hand out to help Esme up, and Esme is too stunned not to let her. In the moonlight, she can see the girl's smile.

"What are you doing up here?" she asks, unknowingly echoing Esme's own scolding thoughts from moments ago.

At a loss for words, Esme hears herself shoot back, "I could ask you the same thing."

The girl laughs at the knee-jerk response and releases Esme's hand. "Okay, so you _can_ talk."

Esme blushes and shoves both hands back in her pockets. "You startled me."

"You followed me," the girl points out. "You knew I was here."

Esme hunches her shoulders and glances at the field to give herself some reprieve. She can't seem to completely grasp her own motivations. "You were watching us. Me and my cousins. It was weird."

"So weird that you snuck off alone." The girl clucks her tongue and cocks her hip. "Into a dark forest. To stalk a stranger."

"Yeah, sorry you didn't lure one of the smart ones," Esme mutters.

The girl is quiet for a few too many moments, her expression unreadable. But then she turns, gesturing down the hill. "I should walk you back. Make sure you make it okay."

"Why wouldn't I?" Esme can hear the peevishness in her tone. She's annoyed at herself and this whole situation.

The girl doesn't seem bothered by it. "It's harder going back down. You've already fallen once."

* * *

Esme wakes up early enough to be the one brewing the coffee. She rubs the crease of one palm idly, dazedly remembering the pressure of the girl's hand holding hers in the dark woods the night before. Dazed, not groggy; a floating feeling rather than dragged down. The girl had been able to lead her the whole way without a light, and Esme had been too tongue-tied to say anything but _thank you_. She hadn't rejoined the cousins that remained around the fire.

Now the sun has risen enough to accent the mist between the house and the hill. It's supposed to be almost warm today. Fifty-five degrees in the height of the afternoon. So much like that day four years ago, but now Esme is old enough to know to keep her mouth shut.

She still feels restless, though. Wanting to go back into the woods. Clearly picturing the bright blue sky, golden sunlight on rich brown leaves, and a silvery creek. Everything so crisp. There is water up there, she just knows. She will find it today, with or without Deandre. Somehow, Esme knows, that will ease her mind about the strange girl in the moonlight.

She stays standing at the window, sipping coffee that barely registers.

He's called her out twice before noon over little, nitpicky things: a momentarily forgotten bowl, the noise level when a video game gets competitive. Between that and the youngest cousins needing naps and Esme just wanting to be _outside_ already, her patience and temper are wearing thin. She can feel the clock ticking on her ability to rein herself in, even though she knows that a big enough misstep would mean zero chance of so much as going outside, much less off the property.

Deandre shoots her a sidelong look as she clenches her jaw and counts to ten. This is _not_ how she wanted to waste the weekend. She closes her eyes briefly. _The woods, the field, the stream;_ it turns into a mantra in her head. It keeps her from opening her mouth again.

"That was harsh," her cousin says under his breath, and she shakes her head in response.

"Did you notice anything weird when we had the fire going last night?" she asks when they're both out of rotation a little while later.

"Weird like how?" he asks, still distracted by the competition.

Esme has been weighing her words all morning. They come out measured. "I thought I saw someone in the woods. Might have just been shadows, I guess."

He glances at her, suspicion dawning. She clamps her lips into a thin line of silence but raises her eyebrows at him.

"Is that why you left?"

Esme shrugs. "I think I know where to go now."

* * *

She wasn't exactly lying. She knows she needs to go back to the field, although why and where from there are still elusive details. This time, they don't bring anyone else with them.

"We can show them after we find it," Esme says, bolstered by the sound of her own conviction.

"And if we don't, that still doesn't mean we're wrong," Deandre adds.

"We're not wrong. We _didn't_ make it up."

A crow calls in the distance and leaves and twigs crackle underfoot. Deandre avoids saying anything else until they make it to the field. Esme hesitates at the fence, then tentatively puts a hand on the wood. She feels vulnerable all of a sudden, like her cousin has joined her in something he shouldn't see. The embarrassment propels her over the rungs and into the tall grass. She can't just tell him to go back, or even to wait for her here.

"This isn't Grands'," Deandre points out. He clambers over anyway. "Are you sure we crossed the fence last time?"

"I'm sure we came up here," Esme says. "And I'm pretty sure now that we were generally going straight. I don't know if the fence was here before, but I know I haven't found a stream on that side of the hill. And there was definitely moving water."

"Did it snow that year? Maybe it was melting."

"It was November, Little D." Esme knows he hates the nickname, but it slips out past the roil of emotions clamoring around her thoughts. Predictably, Deandre lets out a growl but stops digging at their hazy memory.

The field is wide enough that it takes a couple of minutes to cross. When Esme stoops through the brush on the opposite side and finally emerges under trees again, it's like a curtain has been lifted. She sucks in a breath and smells the old leaves decaying into rich earth underneath, distant woodsmoke, and the peculiar odor of nearby water. Her pulse ticks up a notch; they're not far now. She's smiling when Deandre breaks through behind her. He peers back suspiciously.

"What's with you?"

Esme surveys the new swath of slope they've found themselves on to get a sense of direction. Objectively, there isn't much to differentiate this hill from their grandparents' side. The trees seem to be the same species, branches just as bare; the undergrowth is thin; and the grade is a rough match underfoot. To the left, there might be a drop, some kind of gully, Esme thinks. They'll have to get a closer look.

* * *

The earth carves deep enough to be a ravine, and there in the crease is the trickle of a stream. Esme grabs Deandre's sleeve excitedly but bites back a shout. More than just the kids ventured out to enjoy the mild weather today - she doesn't know if the sound will carry.

"No shit," Deandre laughs. He doesn't hang back now, keeping up alongside as they skitter down the slope. "We weren't just being dumb kids."

Esme barely remembers the details of the last time they were here. Midday sun, bright blue skies. Disappointment and confusion, and her father and uncles still so much taller than her and Deandre. She remembers being questioned.

"Do you think we saw a ghost?" Deandre asks, his voice rising with excitement. "Did you see a ghost last night?"

Something clicks - the night memories, the way they fit. The woman they thought they saw lying cold in the stream. The girl's moonlit face from last night. Esme's heart skips a beat and a chill races down her spine. "A ghost?"

But then she remembers the firm pressure of a hand against hers. Being helped up, being guided. "A ghost, Dre? Really?" She scoffs and tucks her hands in her pockets. Planting her heels she tips her head back to look at the sky, then down at the water of the stream. The girl could not have been a ghost.

"I'm asking you. I didn't see anything yesterday."

"Ghosts don't exist," she says dismissively. Her gaze follows the course of the stream up the ravine. Geology class was ages ago; is there a spring feeding this thing? She can't make out a source.

"Come on," she beckons, turning to follow the water up its own incline.

"No way," Deandre says. "I want to see if it gets wider further down. Maybe it connects to something bigger."

Esme stops. She can't let him go off alone, but "something bigger" isn't important. The fascinating part is where it all starts, where it all comes from. "Have you ever seen a natural spring? I haven't."

"So what? You know if there's any fish, there has to be a deeper bed. Where there's fish, there's lot of other stuff living, too. We can check out the top on our way back."

She resists the urge to glance over her shoulder. He's right. She doesn't like it, doesn't care about what's further down, but he's right. They can check out both. "Fine," she sighs.

* * *

And he's right: there _is_ a creek much further down. He doesn't see anything moving in the shallows or the center, but he shrugs it off. "Maybe it's too late in the year. What do fish do in the winter?"

As Deandre toes at the gritty bank for stones to skip, Esme leans against the base of the tree at the fork where her stream meets his creek. It's old and stout, as wide around as a barrel before it starts to branch eight or nine feet up. This isn't bad, with the occasional breeze blocked on one side and the sun's warmth nearly at its peak for the day. From this angle, if she squints, she can see at least to the ridge where the brush blocks any hint of the fence and field.

"We definitely didn't come this far that year," she decides. "Man, we were crazy just going to the top."

"That's what made it an adventure." _Plink, plink, plunk._ Deandre's rock sinks. "We should go get the others, for sure. It's not going to be this nice tomorrow."

"You think?" Esme kind of regrets all that desire to prove herself right, now that the moment has come. She's content enough here and now, and what if the others don't want to follow them back? Or worse, what if they don't even get the chance to sneak back? Mechanically, she joins Deandre as his energy carries him back up, noticing that he keeps angling away from the stream.

"Maybe one of us should stay here," she suggests, trying to keep her tone casual. "So we don't lose track of the stream. It's pretty well hidden."

"Why we gotta do that? It's just straight down to the creek." Deandre slows since Esme is clearly hanging back.

She grasps for better reasoning. "Well, I can check out the spring, since you obviously don't care. And I'm pretty sure that _is_ what we found originally, so we should at least show them that."

"Okay," he draws out. "You sure? What if your dad asks where you are?"

Esme rolls her eyes. "I don't know. You haven't seen me in, like, an hour. Maybe I went back inside."

"Okay," Deandre repeats dubiously. "I'll go get the guys."

* * *

She's a little nervous, hiking up the ravine by herself. She can't imagine why she's building this up in her head. There can't be anything _that_ exciting at the source of this trickle. She can already see there isn't any danger. But her pulse still picks up as she nears the end. _The beginning, actually,_ she mentally corrects herself. Her short laugh sounds tense even in her own ears.

When there is no stream left to follow she stoops and gently pushes aside the spindly brush. The spring amounts to nothing more than a slit between mossy stones, as though the stream simply goes on forever. She sits back on her heels, bemused. What had she expected, really?

The rustle of leaves might be it, alerting her to company barely a moment before the girl is at her side. "Hi," Esme says, not hesitating at all to accept the lift up from her crouch.

In the midday sun, she can see the girl is dressed plainly: olive cargos, a speckled cream sweater, practical boots, and a green toque. She has skin the color of the creek bed, mottled with freckles, and wild, coppery curls that spill damply around her collar and over one shoulder. And her eyes - a deep, dark brown - and her smile -

Esme's cheeks heat as she realizes she's staring, but she can't look away.

"Hi," the girl answers, unfazed at the open gawking. "I just missed your friend, huh?"

"Dre's my cousin," Esme clarifies. The words feel thick and unfamiliar on her tongue. "He went to get some of the others."

The girl looks up the slope then back at Esme and gives a single shoulder shrug. "You stayed."

"Yeah," Esme agrees shyly. This is why, isn't it? This is why she stayed, just in case.

"You guys live around here?"

"Our grandparents live over across the ridge. We're just visiting." The girl nods and Esme feels the need to continue. "We're trespassing, aren't we."

The girl's smile turns wry with a small dimple. "A little, but I don't mind."

"It's not the first time," Esme says apologetically.

"Oh." The girl cants her head. She is just the slightest bit taller than Esme, but how much is taken off by the incline? "Oh, this is weird."

Esme's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "What?"

"Unorthodox, I mean. Unusual. Not 'weird.'" The girl gestures vaguely. "You being here again."

"Oh," is all Esme says. She must be missing something.

"I'm Nikki," the girl says, extending her hand.

Bemused, Esme takes it and introduces herself. Then they both withdraw a step in awkward silence.

"You _were_ here a few years ago? Around this time?" Nikki suddenly inquires.

If this... if Nikki is the same girl as back then, if she wasn't made up or a ghost or whatever, then she must be older than she looks. Disappointment leaches through Esme's thoughts.

"Of course you were," Nikki answers herself. "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to... I guess your cousin wasn't old enough..." A frown furrows her brow as she starts to pace.

"I'm lost," Esme mumbles.

Nikki's feet still and she nods, nods and squares up. Her smile is small and sad, and Esme's heart sinks in anticipation.

"Let's find somewhere to sit."

* * *

_They snuck over the hill, just the two of them. Two small little shadows, as though they had loosed from their corporeal bonds to play under the stars. They came over the hill giggling and whispering with voices tinkling like glass. They came._

_She was busy. Distracted. Focused on the man in the hunting blind. Reminding him how dry the cold November air could be. How convenient the stream was, how clean the headwaters. So fresh and soothing._

_But he wouldn't come down. Those shadows skittered down her slope, stirring the leaves, chasing a tiny white light jumping between the trees. They were close, too close._

_Frustrated, she tipped her hand, casting a thin line and warning barb to halt their approach. She should have known better, but her patience had worn thin this night and it was only a momentary lapse._

_They were frightened. They gasped and squealed and fled._

_It didn't matter. The hunter had been snared. That one was hers now, overwhelmed by the call now that she was focused._

_She awoke the next day to more heavy footsteps than she'd heard at once before. The men. And the lighter tread of children, small bodies with shorter shadows. She easily found the two that interrupted last night. And they all easily found the man, far beyond sleep with his bones in the stream._

_She watched, anxious for them to leave her to her slumber. She craved the quiet, and this low growl of suspicion was anything but._

_"This isn't it," one of the children had started, so quietly, perplexed, and then a man rumbled._

_"Isn't what? Speak up."_

_"Nothing."_

_"No, spit it out. You have something to add."_

_"No, I just - "_

_"How convenient that you kids wanted to go for a walk this morning and_ insisted _on checking out the creek and just_ happen _to find a skeleton along the way?"_

_He fumed and barked and berated and when he was done and gone, she had barely burrowed back into unconsciousness before thick-soled men and whining dogs came to pick her clean. For days, they kept up their clamor._

_She couldn't have known that the man lit into his daughter for breaking the rules, for being so stupid to think she could slip this past the adults. And now he would be missing work and she would be missing school and this investigation would disrupt the whole family's lives all because she had thought she was smarter than her aunts and uncles and grandparents. She had been so selfish, and for what?_

* * *

Esme cringes and refuses to look at Nikki, even though they are shoulder to shoulder, perched on the fallen log. "I can't believe you saw even that much."

There is a gentle touch on her knee, then maybe Nikki thinks better of it.

No, then there are slender fingers curled around her wrist, steadying Esme's clenched hands. Her head spins and swims dangerously.

"Can I tell you about the man they found?"

Esme nods dumbly.

"He was engaged to a girl. A beautiful girl. She had been with him for years. High school sweethearts." A thumb brushes over the back of Esme's hand, just under her glove. "But he came out that night. He came to see _me_."

Esme shakes her head. She does not feel steady, and she does not feel scared. "We found bones."

"Yeah," Nikki confirms with a hint of a chuckle. "He never left. No man ever does after coming to me."

Esme looks down at the hand in hers, pushing off the glove to twine their fingers together. That soothing, cool pressure making it hard to breathe.

"And that's the thing," she hears Nikki say, as if across a great distance. "It was always men. Always. And then there was you."

A stray thought finally catches up with Esme. She has to work to hold onto it. "You killed that man? That night?"

"Yes," Nikki says plainly. She ducks her head to meet Esme's eyes.

"He wasn't the only one?"

"No."

Esme can't ignore Nikki's thumb, smoothing over the edge of her palm now. "Are you going to kill me?"

"I don't think I can."

Esme's laugh cracks at the cool note in the woman's voice. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"No, it's the truth. You've seen me three times and you haven't died."

Nikki disentangles their fingers and jumps up from the log. She looks alert rather than angry, but Esme still feels empty at the loss of contact.

"Your cousins," Nikki explains, indicating the top of the hill with a nod. Esme looks over her shoulder, up toward the muted sound of movement in the brush, so many yards away. _This is terrible timing,_ part of her complains. Some strange part, so drawn to an admitted murderer, to this woman that doesn't seem to age.

"Don't go," that part blurts out. She cringes when Nikki seems surprised then shakes her head.

"That's the hook talking."

"The hook?" Esme asks, more to keep Nikki near than out of a desire for answers.

"Like... fishing," Nikki settles on an analogy. "You cast a line with a hook and bait, and when you catch a fish, you reel it back in. Sometimes a fish manages to break the line, but the hook stays stuck in its mouth."

"Okay."

Nikki starts to pace again, clearly agitated by trying to explain this. "That is how the rusalka spell works. The men take the bait, get caught on the hook, and I reel them in."

"The what spell?"

The woman throws her hands up in exasperation. "This isn't _real_ to you. The rusalka spell. Siren song. Naiads, water spirits."

Esme blinks uncomprehendingly at Nikki. She finally tears her gaze away when Deandre calls out to her as the cousins near the stream. She waves in greeting.

"Who's your friend?"

Esme rises from the log and lowers her voice to keep it from carrying. "You won't hurt my cousins, right?"

Nikki looks from Esme to the boys to her stream and back again. "I won't."

"Could you stay for a bit?"

Dark brown eyes search her face like they can see right through her skin and bones. But she's certain that whatever she's showing on the surface is showing on the inside, as well - and Nikki seems convinced enough to carefully nod and put on a smile, however small. Esme's own smile is much bigger, despite the foot of distance between them as they descend their side of the ravine.

* * *

Nikki introduces herself to the cousins as the landowner, deflects the apologies, and latches onto the boys' interest in going all the way down to the creek. Esme gets the impression she does not want them anywhere near the spring. The thought comes with relief that Esme explains away as concern for her cousins, brought on by some innate understanding that the source and the stream are Nikki's personal domain. The broader creek, less hidden, feels more neutral, and the boys are easily distracted by exploring its banks. Esme lingers in the space between Nikki and her cousins. Until the boys are well focused on their own games, the two don't speak - to each other, at least.

Nikki is crouched on the roots of the tree at the fork, keeping an eye on these new interlopers, when she murmurs, "We have a problem, Esme. The two of us."

Esme purses her lips. She wants to ignore the foreboding, tired tone of Nikki's words. (She wants to savor that thought, _the two of us_.) "What do you mean?"

"I mean I need my hook back," Nikki sighs. She pulls off her toque and runs her fingers through her hair, coming away with a comb that must have been hidden among the curls. It practically glitters in the afternoon sun. Nikki holds it up and Esme draws closer to inspect.

The upper edge of the comb is adorned with a dragonfly of translucent green and blue stone, its body outlined delicately in thin brown metal. Below its perch on a simple leafy crest are four teeth. There is a clear gap where a fifth is missing from the ranks. The place where it would be is tarnished, the only blemish on the precious ornament.

"And you need to give it back or you will never be free."

"I don't - "

The woman cuts her off. "You feel the pull, don't you? You can't resist it. You can't think about anything else now that you're here."

Esme blushes at hearing the assessment aloud. So there's the truth, hanging between them in the open air. Acknowledged.

"It was an accident, and it traps both of us. The hook was never meant for you."

"How do you get it back?" Esme mumbles. Maybe Nikki won't hear her.

She does, of course. "There's a pattern. Promise, desire, betrayal, vengeance."

"Death."

"Yes." Nikki tilts her head, combing fingers through her unruly copper curls again. "Well, two kinds of death. They always die happy."

Esme's gaze darts to her cousins and she feels her cheeks warm. The implication sinks in, keeps sinking into a burn. "Oh," she croaks out.

"You don't have a boyfriend, do you? Girlfriend?" The woman sounds perplexed and only slightly hopeful, as though she's already guessed that Esme doesn't. She muses further, thinking aloud. "We already have promise and desire. We just need betrayal and vengeance."

"Oh my God," Esme exhales at the sky. She squeezes her eyes shut. She could easily be convinced this is a bad dream. So easily. Like being naked in front of a classroom.

Nikki snaps her fingers. "Maybe the vengeance could be for you. Would you like me to drown your dad?"

Esme jerks back to the present. "No!"

"He's an awful father."

"No, he's just... I mean, he's not... that bad. I know he could be worse." Esme's defense is poorly articulated and doesn't go any further, but she stands by it. She isn't neglected. She isn't abused.

Nikki huffs and folds her arms over her chest. "Fine. Who else?"

"I don't know," Esme says weakly.

As if on cue, a sharp whistle and shout sound from the very top of the hill. A litany of bellowed names silences the boys, and the cousins all exchange guilty looks. They are in trouble for sure.

Esme knows what waits for her on the other side of the ridge. She knows and refuses to look at Nikki, even though she'd rather stay. She'd rather sort things out here than listen to a lecture, the gist of which she knows by heart. She's likely grounded, too, given what she now remembers about her last excursion to this place.

"You could talk to them," one of the cousins suggests suddenly. "Let them know we weren't trespassing? Please?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea." Nikki's voice is tight, and Esme can feel the tension as the woman stands next to her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle and she agrees; now would not be the time to introduce Nikki to the angry adults for _any_ reason.

Fingertips press comfortingly against the small of her back before they go, and Esme knows that is the feeling she's going to retreat to later. For just one fleeting moment, there is strength and solidarity.

* * *

It's worse than usual. It's so much worse than usual, Esme knows objectively, but she doesn't hear the words. He rails for more than an hour and it doesn't strike him as strange that she never looks up from her hands, that she laces her fingers together just to hold the memory of Nikki's touch even more in the present. It's unbearably clear but completely out of reach at the same time. She almost loses track of herself in the wave of _go back, go back -_

 _Come back,_ as though it's Nikki's own voice, breathless in her ear. A shiver runs down her spine.

Esme blushes and he most likely takes it for shame and anger. And let him - whatever puts him that much closer to being finished with her.

She needs to clear her head, she knows. She needs to be alone. (Or with Nikki.)

It doesn't matter if this is a spell or a hook or Esme's own heart. Nikki can explain it however she wants, but that doesn't change the feeling. If anything, it's gotten stronger.

She barely eats dinner. No one tries to engage with her after that, which is a blessing. She showers and goes to bed early and doesn't sleep.

Then it's the middle of the night, with the walls shrouded in shadow and the sky so vastly black that later she will wonder how she saw the figure at all.

* * *

The police could have scoured the woods for years and never found Nikki's abode. Esme could have followed every body of water in the entire mountain range and never found it. But here she sits, Nikki cupping her jaw and searching her face with deep concern. "Why did you do that?" she keeps asking, and Esme has no response or understanding of the question.

"Why did you stop fighting?" Nikki demands, an edge in her voice.

"Fighting?" Esme repeats, dazed.

"All you needed was a shred of resistance and we would have been okay - "

"We're okay." She is smiling, she realizes. It feels nice.

"No, we're not," Nikki scolds as she withdraws, wringing her hands then running them through her wet hair. Droplets flick through the air at the motion. "You're running out of time."

 _Before vacation ends?_ Esme wonders. That _is_ sad, but the schedule hasn't changed.

"This is my fault," the woman continues, turning fluidly as she cuts a short path across the glittering tiled floor. She is barefoot but doesn't seem affected by the anticipated chill. "I shouldn't have encouraged you. I thought I'd just - but I should have known, after all this time, with you being so young - "

"I'll be seventeen in a month," Esme interjects, bemused.

" _So_ young," Nikki reiterates, "and fragile. I'm just not used to the idea of not going through - "

"You're making my head spin," Esme says, and that gets Nikki to slow and look at her. There is fondness in her gaze, but sadness, too.

"I know," she sighs. She is keeping her distance now. Esme can feel it like an ache in her chest.

"Would you... slow down." Esme clears her throat, wishing she could get better words out. "Come here?"

"No," Nikki says, but she clearly hesitates. She clearly stops herself.

"I don't want to kill you," the woman says, firm with conviction but fracturing with desperation. "The spell was never meant for little girls. It was meant to _protect_ you."

"Mhm," Esme hums. "It protected me then, didn't it?"

Brown eyes narrow at her, but Nikki can't stop the wry amusement pulling up the corner of her lips. "Don't argue with me. I'm still trying to figure out how to keep you alive."

Emboldened by the privacy and response, Esme presses her luck. "You know what makes me feel alive? The fact that you care. The fact that you exist. The fact that you came and got me tonight. Do you have any idea how pissed he would be, if he knew I couldn't care less what he said or did, because I knew I could still find you?"

Nikki opens her mouth to respond, obviously to disagree, but something stops her. As though she is finally listening to Esme, finally accepting the sincerity. Esme is sure her expression is softening. Carefully, she boosts herself to her feet. Nikki doesn't move to stop her advance until they are almost toe to toe. She is so serious, and so gentle.

"There is a saying," she starts carefully, and Esme feels her heart skip a beat. "Well, there are a lot of sayings, about revenge. That it consumes you, that it is best served cold. Things along that line."

Esme bites her lip and waits. She knows how to be quiet; she learned that long ago.

"But also, that living well is the best revenge."

"Really," Esme says, feeling as though a response is necessary now. To acknowledge she's heard.

"Really," Nikki echoes. She sounds intrigued by whatever possibility is chasing through her head. "I think... that might not be cheating. Cheesy, but not cheating." Her growing smile is brilliant as it unfolds, as her cheeks dimple and the freckles crinkle across the bridge of her nose.

"What are you thinking?" Esme prompts, leaning into the palms that have been holding her back.

"If I promise to... to support you. Be there for you," she corrects. "Help you get out from under his control. I could come with you and... do that."

The surprise shakes Esme back to something resembling reality. "You could? Don't you need your water?"

"Yes," the woman says with a heavy exhale. "But I think I can do this. You will be alive, and I wouldn't have to kill him. If I make a promise, I have to keep it."

"You said you were trapped."

Nikki's laugh carries a dark sort of amusement. "I am. I'm not positive this will work. But look - I will promise, and as a token of that, I will give you my comb. And when you get home, you will put it in the nearest body of water. Creek, lake, or river; it doesn't matter."

"More magic?" Esme cants her head, inviting Nikki into the joke, but the woman nods as if that's it exactly.

"And if I don't appear, then you're already free."

* * *

They make the pact at the headwaters, under the stars of morning. When Esme closes her fingers around the comb, Nikki releases with a shuddering breath and looks up, wrapping her arms around herself as if to keep from reaching to take the token back. Esme tucks the comb away in her pocket and reaches to pry one of the woman's hands free.

"Thank you," she whispers, and Nikki looks back down at her.

The woman's eyes are so, so dark. And they shine with unshed tears.

She lets Esme pull her close.

* * *

Esme doesn't know much about magic. She knows that by Monday morning, the yearning has begun to ebb. The tarnish on the comb has begun to fade and a tooth, polished smooth, has mysteriously fitted itself into the empty space. Tuesday afternoon, she walks the long way home to cut through the local park and slips Nikki's token under the creek's cold water, well into the silty depths, and waits alone long after the shivering starts. She hides her soaked sneakers and wet jeans until laundry day. A weekend comes and goes and Thanksgiving begins to feel like a dream.

He lights into her one night for asking to go to a basketball game at a nearby rival high school with classmates. He is stressed out with the holidays coming up, her mother says, asking Esme to try not to draw his attention when he's in one of these moods. Esme skips dinner.

She walks the route through the park one more time, stopping on the bridge to stare at the slow moving water and wish she had never taken the comb, had kept that little hook under her skin and known, with every imagined pull, that Nikki was out there somewhere, wishing Esme would come back. Even if the woman hadn't wanted the same thing Esme did, at least she had let Esme _matter_.

"Damn it," Esme hisses into the crisp wintry air, at the clouds hanging heavy over the looming dusk. She wishes, and she knows it's selfish.

* * *

She is thinking about leaving when she hears footsteps on the bridge. She turns as the girl approaches. The girl stops in front of her with a shy grin and pushes stray auburn curls back from her face.

"Hey," is all she gets out before Esme goes right past her extended hand to wrap arms around her neck and bury her face in the collar of the almost familiar butterscotch sweater. After a moment the embrace is returned with a huff of amusement against her ear. "Looks like we both get to live."

Esme doesn't trust her voice with a response. She takes a deep breath of pine and fresh mountain air, and she doesn't let go.


End file.
